


Challenge (Counter)

by unsettled



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Bloodplay, Community: Alice kinkmeme, Fight Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Painplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lashes out, and Tarrant curls away, barely brushed at all; comes back at Stayne with his head tilted just so, like he's begging Stayne to hit him, and Stayne never refuses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Challenge (Counter)

**Author's Note:**

> My brain rebells after a certain amount of fluff/romance and starts screaming for blood. Also kind of fills this kinkmeme prompt: _The Knave and The Hatter both fighting for dom status. Let's get some thrashing/whipping, biting, and blood into this please_

It's dark, but that doesn't matter to him. He knows these hallways, he could walk the path he's taking backwards and forwards with his eyes closed. Could walk it in his sleep; he has done so before, long ago. The room is well lit, welcoming almost, and Stayne can see the madman's shadow through the open door. Even now, he wonders how Tarrant always seems to know.

"Well," Tarrant says, brightly, and he doesn't even turn his head, "it didn't take long for you rid yourself of our dear old fathead." He turns then, and his smile is as sharp as his words - sharper than steel. "But then, you don't waste your time on just anyone, do you, Ilosovic?"

Tarrant's eyes are luminous, poisonous. Stayne grits his teeth. "Don't call me that," he hisses. Tarrant's grin turns feral.

"No?" Tarrant whispers. "Are only those you are loyal to allowed that privilege? Oh," and he laughs; it is bittersweet, filled with broken glass. "That's no one, isn't it?"

Tarrant has gone too far; he always goes too far, and Stayne doesn't quite know why these, of all the words he could have chosen, are the ones to inflame him. He lashes out, and Tarrant curls away, barely brushed at all. He comes back at Stayne with his head tilted just so, like he's begging Stayne to hit him, and Stayne never refuses.

Tarrant turns a stumbling fall backwards into something tempting, brushes by Stayne with a laughing "Why, Staynsie!" A bloody kiss, and one of his clever little knives opening a shallow cut high on Stayne's cheekbone. Blood clears his mind; he should know better by now than to play Tarrant's games. Stayne whirls, catches one lace wrapped wrist and throws them both to the ground, savoring the uncontrolled gasp as Tarrant's back slams against the floor. He pins him easily, his greater weight making it nothing more than play, stretching Tarrant's armed hand above his head with one gloved hand while the other curls around Tarrant's neck, those tainted eyes glittering up at him. Tarrant smiles, like he's well pleased with something. The way he can wear such an expression in this position is only more proof of his madness.

He's caught on this fragment of insanity when he feels Tarrant shift, and realization of his obvious mistake comes at the same time as the sharp prick of a blade against his collarbone. Idiot, Stayne thinks. He's got two hands. He's mad, but he's never helpless. His hand moves from Tarrant's neck to deflect the blade, wondering at the odd placement - against a bone for what reason.There's always a reason, and then Tarrant presses up, lifting his head and flicking his tongue along the line of blood trailing from the cut on Stayne's cheek, and everything stops for a second. Ah. So that's where this was headed. Tarrant's head drops back down, the tiniest smear of red on his lips, and he licks it away as Stayne watches. Stayne thinks he'd like to see more blood on those lips, and he wouldn't half mind if it was his own.

He leans down to return the challenge, offers a kiss that turns to a bite, opening Tarrant's lip, as he feels the bright shiver of pain that tells him he's leaned right into Tarrant's little knife, slicing open his own skin. A smudge of darkness appears against his collarbone; he swears, and Tarrant laughs. He silences Tarrant, tasting metal, and his free hand tugs rather uselessly at Tarrant's pants. Tarrant laughs again and arches into him, and the resulting sensation is more than a little distracting, which is his explanation for why he finds himself on his back, Tarrant looming above him, both hands pressing blades against Stayne's throat, Stayne's hands frozen halfway through the motion of pulling Tarrant back down.

Tarrant is smiling down at him; the cut from Stayne's teeth is stretched open and filling with blood, overflowing, trembling on the edge of running down his chin…and Stayne finds he is panting at the thought. One knife slides away, not without leaving a mark, and is caught between Tarrant's hand and the floor as he leans forward on it, close enough to kiss Stayne - almost close enough but not - hovering right above him, daring Stayne to raise his head those last few centimeters. Stayne's lips part, accepting, and at that moment the bloody drop gives in, succumbs to gravity and falls against Stayne's lips, flavoring them with iron. He groans. "Bastard,"

"Maybe," says Tarrant, and then he's rocking against Stayne, and ah, god! He can feel Tarrant's cock, even through layers of clothing, and and he wishes he'd managed to get Tarrant's pants more than halfway unbuckled. His own hips are rising up to grind against Tarrant, and Tarrant's head tilts up, exposing the long clean line of his throat. He draws a breath that's almost a moan, and that's all Stayne needs to sweep his leg around and his arms up and flip Tarrant over again.

When Tarrant's eyes open again, they are more orange that green, and more iris than pupil or white, and his grin is something that's all teeth and more challenge than humor. He raises his legs and wraps them around Stayne, who is busy marking the lovely expanse of throat that was so recently brought to his attention. They rut against each other mindlessly, needing more but neither willing to give it. Tarrant's hands are sliding down Stayne's back, curling round his hips, running up his arms, and Stayne realizes quite suddenly that Tarrant is still in possession of his vicious knives, because he's just buried one in the muscle of Stayne's upper arm. Stayne curses around a blossoming mouthful of flesh and bites down harder than he intended; Tarrant moans, and Stayne jerks back, shifting his weight to his unhampered arm and striking Tarrant.

Tarrant's head snaps to the side, and he laughs through a mouthful of blood, dripping onto the flawless floor. Even now, driven far beyond reason by lust and anger and want, Stayne finds room to be appalled by this. "Crazy," he whispers, hips stilling for a second. "Probably," Tarrant says, and then Stayne is covering Tarrant's treacherous mouth with his own, feasting on the spill of blood and saliva, desperately, like he knows he'll never have it again, and he never will. He can feel the blood sliding sluggishly down his arm - never mind the knife, he's had worse - he's busy listening to the sounds Tarrant makes, something approaching a whine, something far beyond a pant, Tarrant's legs tightening, his body coiling, quivering, as he comes.

"God," Stayne breathes. "Possibly," Tarrant manages, and Stayne would laugh at that if he weren't a little busy being overwhelmed by the sensation of orgasm flooding through his own body. Things get very fuzzy for a few moments, which he wasn't really expecting - but there a first for everything, he supposes.

When he opens his eyes again, it's light; he's alone, sprawled on the floor, with a knot on the back of his head and a hole in his arm.


End file.
